Chapter 20
The next day, Callista left the stifling corridors of the Abbey for the fetid air of the docks near Rothwild's processing plant. Martin was in a meeting, and Windham hadn't been around - that she could tell - to report back to him. She took her pistol and Blacky, and she hoped that when Martin found out she was gone, he would simply shrug. He needed to adjust.
She couldn't be locked in that basement forever, after all, if the work was going to get done.
There had been three checkpoints between Holger and the slaughterhouse wharfs, and she'd passed through all of them without a problem. It seemed knowledge of her and acceptance of the legitimacy of her rank was spreading; that was a good sign. It meant, at the very least, that the Regent wasn't telling the rank and file Watch officers to restrict her movements, to hassle her, to delay her, which in turn meant he didn't see her as a threat or that he didn't dare risk appearing fractious. Either one helped them.
The road ended where the high retaining wall dropped off to the shore, by a platform elevator used to bring goods up and down the wall to the docks below. There were no seats nearby so she stood at the edge, hand resting on Blacky's head. From there, she could see out to the wide mouth of the Wrenhaven, and beyond it, maybe, to the open ocean.
Dinner the previous night had been quick and slightly strained. Martin had been distracted by something - a matter of policy, perhaps, or theology. She'd mentioned, briefly, that the Empress had said something of interest, that it may have been an opening at the Regent, but that she'd need to explore further.
He hadn't pressed, and that had been strange.
It felt wrong to be angry at their would-be-assassins, not for their violence, but for their intrusion into the rhythm they'd established. Martin claimed to not be afraid for her, but his words and actions didn't match his platitudes. And she responded to that fear, withdrawing and sneaking out and-
And this was the first year she'd lived with Geoff all over again, with added danger and the constant tickle of deep attraction.
She glanced down at the hound. For all his history, he had become a quiet, observant thing, that bristled around Overseers and other hounds, but was placid at her side. Perhaps he was enjoying the easy retirement. Her thoughts drifted to Potterstead, or to any city dotting the Gristol coast. Away from the plague, away from intrigue, with a hound and a pistol... even if it took her years to meet up with Geoff again, perhaps he had a point.
Perhaps staying here was only twisting her. Replacing reasonable fears with things nobody should ever have to worry over.
She sighed, and sought out the shape of ships dotting the bay. There were a few, still, the whaling trawlers that were still filtering back in, allowed through the blockade because nobody else had the industry to handle the thrashing behemoths aboard or the men who had suspended them above the great decks. The sea certainly twisted them. Even before Geoff had begun telling her horror stories about the violent dry-docked whalers his men had to put down like rabid dogs, she'd read the narratives herself, eager for any connection to the life at sea. She'd read them, cover to cover, each five or ten times. She'd even read books on factory management, after Geoff had made it very clear that she was never to step foot on a ship, hoping that perhaps she could work in Rothwild's slaughterhouse, overseeing the work of taking each great beast down to its component parts.
And every book, even the driest treatise supporting the trade, was clear on one thing: hunting and butchering the beasts, hearing their songs, made the workers different. It made them violent, independent, something other than a civilized man.
Geoff had never understood the attraction, but it had gone deep. It still writhed below her breastbone, though the sight of water no longer made her antsy. The High Oracle's warning rested in the back of her mind, cautioning her against losing herself.
But it's call was- undeniable.
Beneath her hand, Blacky shifted, then twisted his head about. She felt his low growl before she heard it. It grew in intensity; whoever was approaching hadn't stopped, not even at the bared fangs, the slavering jaw. She turned her head as well.
Martin was roughly twenty feet away, in full uniform, unaccompanied.
She frowned. He didn't quite look real, in the mid-day sun. She realized then that she'd largely only seen him indoors, or in the confines of a railcar. Once or twice she'd talked with him out in the yard, but to see him unexpected on the streets of larger Dunwall-
Blacky barked.
"Shh," she said, head jerking down. She dropped her hand to the scruff of his neck and took a tight grip. The hound shifted his weight between his forelegs, then huffed and went slack beneath her touch. She released him, slowly, and he sank down onto his belly, head up and alert, but the rest of him still.
"How did you find me?" she asked, when Martin was close enough that she didn't need to shout. "Is Windham skulking in the alleyways?"
"No. I just remembered your penchant for maritime death," he said, shrugging. "Do the fumes from the slaughterhouse satisfy?"
She wriggled her nose. The pungent stench had long ago become simply background to her thoughts.
"I don't know how you can stand it," he said, stepping past her and settling down on the ground, legs dangling over the edge of the retaining wall.
"It doesn't smell much different than the interrogation room, or the holding cells," she said. "It's fresher than the sewers, at least. More honest. Fewer river krusts."
He snorted. "I've always found that the perfumed halls of the Cat smell best out of the city's offerings, to tell the truth."
"What, with the underlying odor of desperation, loneliness, spilled expensive alcohol, and the river running just below it all?"
"That's what makes it such a fine vintage," he said. He had folded his hands in his lap and was looking out at the sea. He didn't seem worried, or angry at her leaving, which eased the tension on some of the many taut threads inside of her. His possessiveness had been momentary, fleeting; she had reminded him of her independence.
Perhaps her capacity for violence should come next, though the governess still residing inside of her quavered at the thought.
"Are you out for a stroll, or do you need me back at Holger?" she asked.
"Both and neither." He twisted, looking over his shoulder at her. "The lead you mentioned last night. What is it?"
"That witch that Billie mentioned," she said, after a moment's thought. "She might have been hired to paint the Empress's portrait, and she used to be Sokolov's apprentice."
"That's worrying," he said, frowning slightly. "Hired by the Regent, I presume?"
"The Empress thinks so. As does Sokolov. But while Sokolov agreed that she might be inclined to witchcraft, he's doubtful the Regent would have hired her knowing that."
"It's true. That seems... foolish of him. It leaves him vulnerable to our investigations." Martin quirked a brow and patted the stone next to him.
She shook her head. "Plausible deniability, though... if he never knew, and she never said, it's not his fault. It's not enough to do anything with. We don't even know if painting involves her witchcraft, though I've seen her work. It's quite- peculiar."
"Will she be coming back for a second session?"
"I would assume so. The portrait can't be finished yet."
"Then we wait on that. We'll have to ask Waverly Boyle to have her governess keep an eye on the schedule, and alert us. We can happen to drop in next time."
Callista nodded, slowly. "And how do we hook our quarry?"
"We may not be able to. It will rest on proving that he knows about her tendencies."
"He may have known her as a girl," Callista said.
"Look into it. You said she was Sokolov's apprentice?"
"Yes. I'm seeing him tomorrow to talk further, and so he can continue work on that painting of me."
Martin's lips curled, and he looked back out over the water. "Good, good. Well, on to the second order of business, then. Our friend Sister Anise has returned."
Callista frowned. "I see. This despite our sending our first report?"
"She hasn't given a straight reason for returning, but I assume it's because of the reappearance of the Empress, and the other... happenings. The High Oracle must want one of her own observers." He shrugged. "Besides, our letter can't have reached the Oracles yet. We may hope that she'll be recalled soon."
"Do you think the High Oracle approves of... the current state of the Abbey?" Callista asked, glancing around. The streets were empty. Five blocks up there was a Watch post, but when she'd passed by, the lone man on duty had been deep in a seedy novel.
"Who knows?" Martin asked. "Anise would like to see you, of course. I'm sure keeping tabs on your developing role is high on their list of priorities. And given your sex, they might be interested in- laying claim to you. Having you represent both aspects of the Abbey."
"You don't have to worry about that."
"I'm not," he said, and pushed himself back up to his feet. He peered down over the edge to the quay below, then turned to her, crossing his arms over his chest. "... You're free to come and go as you please now, without checking in."
Callista's brows lifted in question. "Has Billie been found, then?"
"No. But keeping you trapped isn't exactly useful to me, and you're no fool. Blacky and your pistol should be able to take care of any daylight adversaries. How's your aim these days?"
"Better than when you hired me. Not as good as I'd like."
Martin looked down the avenue. "We could practice."
"The yard is quite crowded, and I doubt Brother Hume would resume our lessons with much grace."
"You did give him Rudshore," he reminded her. "But I didn't mean at the yard. We have a wide open field here, and half the buildings are abandoned, and the tenants of the others are more than happy to stay inside."
"That's-" She hesitated, searching for the right word. "Improper," she settled on.
"The Watch does it all the time," he said, and began walking towards an empty, upturned crate about a hundred yards away. He stopped from time to time to scoop up bottles and bricks from the gutter by the side of the street. She watched, and Blacky watched with her. He leaned against her ankle, and as Martin got further away, she could feel him relax.
"Learn to like him," she murmured. Blacky didn't respond, except to push harder against her ankle.
Martin returned a few minutes later, after setting up several targets for her, including what might have been a rotted apple. "From what I've seen," he said, dusting off his hands, "you get flustered under pressure, and your aim isn't what it should be. The two, of course, feed into one another. You have most of the mechanics down, but you haven't fully gotten used to a pistol yet. Does that sound right?"
"Close enough," she said, thinking back to the Morlish men. She could have been cleaner about it, certainly.
"From what I've heard," he said, "during the Trials, they test the new recruits by causing constant terror. Constant noise, or constant silence, too much or not enough stimulation... and they give them tasks. Those who buckle under the pressure don't become Overseers. Those who become hard, who can ignore the distractions, they remain. But," he said, no doubt catching the paling of her face, "I'm not going to subject you to obstacle courses. I think it will be enough just to practice."
"Over and over again until it's second nature," she said.
"Exactly."
"I didn't bring extra ammunition," she said, unholstering her pistol. It no longer felt too heavy for her.
"I have enough for two reloads, plus my own gun, though I'd prefer we each keep at least one bullet for the walk home," he said. "How's the hound around gunfire?"
"Fine, as far as I know," she said, pushing Blacky away with the side of her foot. He huffed and glared up at her, but she stepped over him anyway, closer to Martin and more in line with her targets. His lead attached to her belt, and allowed some space between them. "It's not like Havelock never practices his marksmanship."
Martin chuckled, then stepped back and watched as she settled into what she remembered of the stance both Hume and her uncle had taught her on. They'd both preferred that she hold her gun with both hands, explaining that as she was smaller and frailer than the average Watch officer or Overseer, the weight and recoil might be too much otherwise.
"No," Martin murmured, then stepped in close again. He folded his arms around her, and lightly guided her left hand off the grip of her pistol. Then his hands dropped to her hips, and he turned her so that she presented only her side to the target.
"Hume said-"
"Hume is an idiot if he thinks that pose is going to do anything except get you killed," he said. "There's no reason you can't learn to be just as accurate like this. That stance is for little children."
One of his hands lingered at her waist as he reached up with the other and guided her arm out, straight. "Of course," he added, breath sliding over her ear, "this does present the unfortunate problem that if somebody does manage to hit you, the bullet can't just pass through and happily miss every major organ. But there's such a smaller chance of getting hit at all. Understand?"
Holding the pistol one-handed, all she could focus on was keeping it up and level. "My wrist-"
"Will adjust," he said. His right hand came to rest just below her elbow. "Keep your arm just barely relaxed. The recoil will guide your hand up - let it. Then reset."
Callista licked her lips. His presence felt good - warm, enticing, reassuring. She focused on the targets down the way, and let her finger dance over the trigger.
"Good," he murmured. "Fire."
The crack of the gun echoed off the surrounding building, and behind her she could hear gulls taking off in a flurry of frightened wingbeats. One window banged closed.
"Again," he said.
She didn't even notice if she'd hit her first target before she fired again.
"He's cancelled again."
Martin's chair creaked as he leaned back in it, propping his foot against the edge of his desk. "Second time? Third?"
"Fourth," Callista responded, crumpling up the letter. The tendons on the backs of her hand pressed against the confines of her glove. "This makes it a week now."
"What's his excuse this time?"
"Something about needing to step in as a guest lecturer at the Academy," she said, shaking her head and tossing the ball of paper into the fireplace, which only smoldered. "Which, of course, I cannot attend given the current ban on women. It's as if he doesn't realize this isn't a social call about a painting."
"Perhaps he doesn't," Martin replied, letting his foot fall back to the floor and leaning forward in his seat as it rocked forward. "How clear were you?"
"As clear as I thought was prudent," she snapped, then sighed and pressed her hand to her face. "And I haven't had any luck with Lady Boyle, either, so the witch could have been to the Tower three times by now, and we wouldn't know."
"I think we'd know," he said. "Our lines from the Tower aren't as responsive as I'd like, but they're there."
"But we don't know how fast this threat is moving. For all we know, it could be over and done with."
"Leaving a living Empress. Not the worst outcome. A lost opportunity to be sure, but-"
"Stop!" she said, rounding on him. "Stop with your endless sparring. A little sympathy would be appreciated in place of all your excuses and interpretations."
Martin chuckled. "Of course. My apologies - it's become a habit, I suppose. Yes, Sokolov is being incredibly evasive, and his rudeness is secondary to the risk he's putting us at. I agree. But what will you do about it? Go to the Academy and barrel your way in?"
"I might," she said.
"I'd like to see that," he agreed. "Though you might have more luck asking Lydia Boyle to get you in - she knows quite a few of the philosophers, or so I've heard."
"We have an in, if we want it. She offered us money."
Martin's pleasant expression turned dark and sour. "When was this?"
"When I spoke with Sokolov last. She was posing for him at the time. I told her we were self-sufficient."
He rubbed at his jaw. "I see. Still- that's roundabout. Perhaps a raid during his lecture..."
"Not necessary," she said, then sighed. "I hope, anyway. All we know about this witch is that she can cloud the mind. She controlled Billie's thoughts - maybe, and only a little. She remembered most of it, after all."
"Yes. That seems like something that would have the Empress calling us. And we could just set up a box with her at all times, though I suspect she'd object. So I think we can take a few days to relax, hm? Focus on the mounting death toll, and your shooting."
Callista shrugged.
She had her mouth open to inquire about the current status of Draper's Ward when a knock made her pause. Anise's voice filtered in:
"High Overseer? Miss Curnow?"
"Come in," Martin said, shooting Callista a questioning look.
She had no answer for him. Anise had been a ghost the last week, mostly shielded by her mask, always quiet. She'd been seen in all parts of the Abbey, but had not left the grounds. She'd met with Callista twice - both briefly, both oddly lacking in substance. There had just been questions about the plague, and about her health. Nothing more. Each time, she'd had her full mask in place.
This time, when she entered, the brass dome was nowhere to be seen, her eyes instead covered by the red cloth. "Good, I had hoped you would both be here," she said, shutting the door behind her. "I must say, you've established your control here quite well, though I have sensed some discord. You might look to Brother Jasper's faction."
"Already being done," Martin said, eyes narrowing. "Is your check in done, then? Will you be returning to the High Oracle?"
"Soon," she said. "We have seen, however, that something momentous will be happening in your place of power. I'm here to observe it."
Callista stiffened, then made herself move, going to the sideboard to pour drinks. "Us specifically, or just the elite of Dunwall?"
"Unclear," Anise said. "And I do not require wine or whiskey, Miss Curnow, but thank you."
Callista stopped with her hand an inch from the wine bottle. "Of course."
"How is it that you see the future, Sister Anise?" Martin asked, propping his chin on his fist. "Are they clear images, or more general impressions?"
"We see it in the stars, High Overseer, just like you see your calendars- which, of course, are man's interpretations of the movements of the heavens," Anise replied, moving to one of the chairs in a rustle of fabric. "We stare into the Void, which we have found absorbs all things, and reflects patterns back to us."
"I'm not sure I trust anybody who spends any length of time contemplating the Void," Martin said. "Some would say that sounds like heresy."
"And that would be why we haven't told many people," she said, laughing softly. "But we have our precautions. There's a tincture we can drink that purges the Void from us. We rarely need it. But it... has been useful, before."
"I'd like that in my arsenal," Martin said, voice sliding into a purr.
Callista watched the back and forth with rapt attention, as if it were a ball game of some sort. They were clearly acting in alliance, moreso than Martin and the Regent faked theirs, but there was still the ceaseless undercurrent of battle.
Martin was either combative or haughty with all he spoke to - except for her.
"I'll inquire about the possibility," Anise said, canting her head to one side. "Though I don't suppose you have many possessed captors - you shoot them all on sight."
"Is that a criticism?"
Callista cleared her throat. "I think," she said, "that I'll leave you two to your theology."
"To the Academy with you?" Anise asked.
She blanched. "I-"
"Another vision," Anise said, shrugging. "You would have done well there, if things had been different."
Callista glanced to Martin, who only shrugged. Swallowing thickly, she excused herself from the room.
The hallways of the Royal Academy, while not as full of knowledge as the libraries or the grand lecture halls which she was barred from, were filled with cabinets of curios. She passed over an hour in a single stretch, peering into each glass cabinet, inspecting artefacts from Pandyssia and the far reaches of Tyvia where men went mad in the frozen wastes. There were preserved specimens of any number of animals, and a dissected river krust which, while not attractive, was fascinating in its layers upon layers of stoney growths.
Beyond the double doors that she orbited around, she could hear Sokolov's voice booming, though the words were indistinct. She itched to open the door and stride in, take a seat in the back as if she belonged, but it had been bombastic enough to demand entrance to just this section of the Academy. Her rank and her determination had gotten her this far; they could not take her further.
So she waited and inspected teeth from a whale of a class not commonly found in any of the near waters. She crouched and studied the intricacies of a preserved root system. She was left alone, ignored by the passing porters. None offered her a seat, or a drink.
Every so often, she caught threads of Sokolov's lecture material. He was relating his most recent trip to Pandyssia, and his theories on the bull rat and its plague. Once she caught the tail end of a sentence where he implied that there had been other recorded cases of this exact plague in the Isles, but she couldn't hear beyond it to learn if he had proof.
She was meditating on the fact that she was treated better in the halls of Parliament than she was here when she heard the shuffle of bodies behind the doors. She straightened, adjusted her Abbey sash, and waited as the doors opened and students spilled out. They wore old, heavy robes that ended just above the knees, showing off shapely (and not-so-shapely) calves, pieces of history worn sloppily by young men who were no doubt brilliant but looked like they couldn't find the bristled end of a brush.
Several looked at her with interest, and a few with trepidation, but she kept her gaze fixed ahead. Sokolov did not appear to be among them. Frowning, she pushed forward through the crowd, until she could peer into the lecture hall.
He was down by the podium, moving quickly toward a separate exit.
He was avoiding her!
She swore and pushed past the last of the students, stalking into the lecture hall. It was a deep basin of a room, the sides pitched steeply, and she moved quickly down the stairs, ending in a gallop as Sokolov turned back, saw her, and reached frantically for the door. Behind her, porters shouted for her to stop. She ignored them.
"Sokolov!"
He got the door open and was through it and pulling it shut by the time she reached it, shoving her booted foot in the jamb. She swore again and wrenched it open, then reached out and grabbed the physician by the trailing velvet sleeve of his worn, poorly-washed robe.
"Dammit, woman!" he shouted, tugging to get free. She held fast, panting.
"Why are you running?"
"And what would you do if the High Overseer's hound came chasing after you!"
Callista's fingers loosened in an attempt to placate. "You've been canceling every appointment we've had for a week," she said. "And given how polished you sounded in your lecture, I'm inclined to believe that when you scheduled our meeting today, you already knew you'd have to cancel it. Care to explain?"
"Unhand me," he snapped.
She did. He didn't run, instead jerking his arm away and smoothing out his beard with the undeniable air of a truculent little bird.
He huffed and puffed out his chest a bit. "Well, if you must know, it's because I can't find the sketches I did of you," he said, glaring. "Or the canvas I started. And I'm not in the mood to do all that establishing work again."
Callista frowned. "Can't... find the sketches?"
"Yes, I'd hired a new maid a few weeks before, and I suspect she stole them for money. Can't imagine who would have paid for sketches of you, but she hadn't taken the work I'd done for Lady Boyle, at least. That would have been a nightmare."
"So you've been dodging me because you're lazy?"
"I have better uses of my time, Miss Curnow. Surely you can understand."
One of the porters knocked rapidly on the door they'd passed through, then poked his head in. "Doctor, allow me to remove-"
"Miss Curnow can stay," he said, still scowling. "For a few minutes, anyway. Leave us."
"... Yes, Doctor," the porter said, then backed away from the door. He notably didn't close it.
Callista looked around them for the first time. They were in a short hallway that led to a few other closed doors. Sokolov reached past her and closed the door behind her, then motioned for her to follow.
"I can understand," Callista said, keeping her voice low, "but I couldn't care less about a portrait."
He bristled at that, his pride wounded. "I see."
"I needed to ask you more about your apprentice, Delilah."
"There's not much more to share. I thought I had communicated as much," he said, opening the door to a stairwell and leading her up. A few more yards of hallway and he opened another door onto what appeared to be his residential office. She wondered how often he retreated here to hide from disgruntled lovers and the Abbey.
"Sit, that chair," he said, stabbing a finger at the seat in the room that undeniably caught the best light this time of day. She settled into it, and he went to his desk, piled high with tomes and papers. He brought a paper pad with him as he settled down across from her, and as he continued to speak, he began sketching in sharp, jerking, angry motions. "She was in love with depicting what she said the Void looked like. Strange colors, distorted proportions. She learned the fundamentals well enough, and fast, but she refused to paint as patrons wished her to paint. She lost me a lot of money and a lot of patrons."
"Before that," Callista asked, sitting stiffly in place, "did she know Jessamine well?"
"Yes. She made bread in the Tower, and was about Jessamine's age. They became playmates, before Burrows was brought on by Euhorn. That's how I discovered her - I saw some of her sketches. Better that I saw them than some of Jessamine's nurses - they were sometimes violent. One showed Delilah eating Jessamine's face. Not kissing her- though there were some of those, too. No, it was more animalistic. She gave that one directly to me. Jessamine didn't see it. For the best, I think."
"So she was envious of Jessamine."
He snorted. "If you were a serving girl in the Tower, wouldn't you be? She moved on, though. When she came to work for me, she was confident, proud, arrogant."
"I can see why you eventually dismissed her," Callista said, dryly. "I can't imagine you enjoyed looking in the mirror that often."
Sokolov responded with a bark of laughter, his hand jerking across the page. "You're becoming brutal, Miss Curnow."
"And her tendencies towards heresy?"
"Average for those of artistic persuasions," he said, shrugging. "In my experience, we're all drawn in some way or another to the darker parts of humanity. Some of us like to study whale oil and its properties. Some like to consume rotted flesh and dance naked under the moonlight. And some like to paint the Void. Human nature, I'd wager. What's your failing, Miss Curnow, by Abbey standards?" He smirked.
She didn't respond.
After a few minutes' silent sketching, she hummed and mused, "If we were to attempt to remove Delilah from the Empress's court, would you assist with statements as to her past?"
"Perhaps," he said. "Though I don't see the benefit."
"We keep a witch from twisting the Empress's mind," she said.
"And leave her with a snake instead," he replied, voice flat.
She again stayed silent.
"Yes, I'll help," he said at last, putting down his pencil and sitting back. He glowered. "Does that satisfy? Will you go, now?"
Callista quirked a brow. "Do you have what you need for the portrait?"
"Enough for now. I'll send for you when it's time to lay down the tone of your skin."
She nodded, and began to rise from her seat.
Outside, sirens roared to life. An announcement. Callista stepped to the window and threw it open.
"Citizens of Dunwall: The enemy of the state and murderer of High Overseer Thaddeus Campbell, Geoff Curnow, has been apprehended by brave members of the Abbey of the Everyman.
"I repeat, Geoff Curnow, enemy of the state and known murderer, has been apprehended."
Callista couldn't breathe.
Behind her, Sokolov was silent. She reached for her throat, and felt tears beginning to build in her eyes as the announcement began its loop.
Abbey of the Everyman.
Jasper.
A month ago, a week ago, she would have been frantic, throwing out idea after idea, desperate to save him, desperate to use her power to carve out a little bit of happiness for herself. But the power that rested in her would always have its limits.
There were fictions in place which had to be upheld for her safety to continue.
There would need to be another denunciation. His trial would be short or nonexistent, and all that would be left would be to pronounce his crimes and her hatred for him either at his execution or over his body. Before that, there would be interrogations, tortures, and she knew her uncle.
He could take endless punishment before he would ever break, ever confess to something he hadn't done. The Regent would want him to corroborate Attano's story, after all. That it had been an elaborate plot. That it hadn't been a reaction against the corruption and cruelty of the Regent.
It would be kindest, then, to arrange for an accident.
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. Her chest burned, her body pulsing in time with the horror building inside of her. It was kindest to put him down like an injured animal. It was kindest to treat him like she'd treated the thugs who'd butchered Martin's back.
And was it kind to her, to him, to never see him until she watched his corpse be brought out? It was certainly safer.
"Miss Curnow?" Sokolov asked.
"Pour us a glass of wine," she said. "And rejoice, for another enemy of Dunwall has been captured. We are bringing ever more order to the city."